Countless stories have been told and will be told in years to come about the effects of Hurricane Irene on Vermont. And they will be tales of heroism, selflessness, acceptance, bravery, generosity, and kindness.
We witnessed the effects of the mighty Mud Brigade.
These were individuals of all ages, from Vermont and surrounding states, with diverse backgrounds. The common ground was their love for Vermont.
Some members used our home on River Road as a base camp to wield their skills. We were the designated babysitters and cooks; the suppliers of hot showers, clean towels, and beds.
Over the Labor Day weekend all the mud from the basements of the houses that availed themselves of their labor was cleared. Generally, a crew of 20-30 individuals formed a bucket line.
The first defense were gloved, masked, and booted shovelers down cellar; the heavy half-filled pails were heaved to the guy ‘in the hole’ who hefted them shoulder high and out the window; the debris was passed from person to person outside and then deposited.
School age children would tote the empty buckets back for the process to begin all over again.
A camaraderie developed among the workers.
Everyone was soon on a first name basis with their place of residence thrown in. Mike from Long Island. Samantha and Hannah from Boston. Kelly from Connecticut.
But soon others earned their names. “Jersey” was identified by his clothing, “Little Girl” and “Big Guy” by their size. And the gal that spent hours “in the hole” outlasting everyone in endurance and the amount of buckets lifted (way over 500 pails) was aptly christened, “The Machine”.
And of course, there were the inevitable and oft repeated mud jokes. Have some liquid goo splash in your face and a comrade would yell, “Just use your glove to wipe it off!” Said glove was encrusted with inches of the stuff. Clean a shovel and need to dry it? “There’s a clean dry spot on your back,” someone would quip.
A large yellow bucket was deemed the “back breaker” and put to the side with frequent warnings of, “Don’t touch that bucket!” Fill the bucket too low and someone “in the hole” would yell, “Hey, we’re not feeding horses back here.” If there was too much mud in a container, surely it was the other guy’s fault for being over zealous.
Throughout the day donations of sandwiches, homemade cookies, chocolate bars, and bottled water arrived. The generosity was overwhelming.
Meaning no disrespect to Alfred Lord Tennyson, I write. Into the valley of Bethel marched the mighty Mud Brigade. Mud to the right of them, mud to the left of them, mud all around them shuddered and trembled. Assailed by heat and dust, boldly they pushed and shoved, moving that nasty mud, the mighty Mud Brigade.
Their only quick reply, “Pass the bucket up the line.” Their only reason why, “Find the floor, you’re doing fine.” Theirs but to shovel and sweat, moving the mud that’s wet, the mighty Mud Brigade.
When will their glory fade? Never, not in our days. Hats off to you we say. Oh, mighty Mud Brigade.
Thank you!
